The View From Below
by Jane Dough
Summary: Post-Wrecked story that is, eventually, going to be very much Buffy/Spike. I'm getting there, I'm just rather... slow.


The View From Below  
  
[Prologue] 

Time trickled past. Sound hours, waved away in ticks -- seconds could move slowly, but when she stopped thinking about time and started feeling again the tension in her skin, the wooden grain against her fingers, she'd find hours could pass in an ill-fitting blink.   
  
There was something about late hours that made her lose focus. Not just night -- that she was accustomed to, that she lived in -- but the long moments that could stretch before morning, when rationality took backseat to ... everything. This late, you didn't measure time in cups, half empty or half full -- there was no metaphor, just emotion, or something harder. Something a little more raw. Something that, if shaken, could maybe even draw blood. She knew that. This late, you were running on momentum -- the final remnants of the action and reaction of day. Leftovers, somewhat gone sour.   
  
She was tired. Heavy-lidded. Rolling her head back now and again to test the movement of her neck, feel if it had tightened to stiffness, or maybe a sort of rubber solidarity. This was a night ritual, a litany not spoken but rehearsed just the same in each disturbance of air. She flexed her toes now and again, or traced her fingers across her knees -- lightly, so as not to disturb the slumber of her own flesh, just to gently reassure herself she still had any sort of sensation. It worked, to a degree. She could feel her heart beating, could feel breath enter and exit, treading between nose and throat and lungs. Alive, then.   
  
He wasn't alive. He didn't breathe. But she'd whispered once into his mouth and seen his chest swell like the sea all the same.   
  
Enough of _that_. Focus elsewhere.   
  
Being alive. Feeling.   
  
That wasn't her problem tonight, not really.   
  
Her room smelled of garlic. Strongly. Nevermind warding off vampires -- _she_ didn't much care for the scent, particularly in these doses. It was about as potent as a cold shower.   
  
If she wanted to admit it, she maybe felt too much.   
  
For one, her body. She was still sore, a little. Not enough to be painful or even really uncomfortable, but just enough to be a constant reminder of ... nothing she'd care to think about right now. Her stomach pinched. She turned her eyes to the ceiling. There was no light, but her eyes had adjusted and she could see the contours there, a crack or two that snaked overhead, across white plaster -- bumpy terrain, spots that were finite but still could not be counted. Not on fingers, not by memory, not by watching them until they blurred together like wet paint.   
  
For another, Dawn. The panic had dissipated, but she was a long way from comfort. If she'd been a moment later, if the crash had been worse, if she'd not gone straight home after patrol... This time, of course, it hadn't been Dawn's fault. She'd been out with an adult she trusted -- an adult she should have been able to trust -- and her arm was broken nonetheless.   
  
Buffy didn't want to think. She twirled the cross, flipping it from thumb to thumb, another object made of wood. Not sharp and pointed, but serviceable in a fashion. Not a conductor of heat, but her hands had warmed it from clenching it so long. Cool things could be made warm if you held them tight enough. Or pushed them hard enough. Or made them angry enough.   
  
Grogginess was setting in. She wasn't even in her pajamas. Her bed was unrumpled, her knees drawn to her chin, making an oblique angle with her face. But it was okay. She had a cross in her hands and garlic to keep away want.   
  
She slept.   
  
He hadn't come.   
  
-----   
  
Dawnie had dreamed of nightmare things.   
  
It was probably the medicine. Or the terror. Or the pain that had come back, a bit, in the night, which made her clench her teeth.   
  
What had she dreamed? She couldn't quite remember. Dark things. Trails that led nowhere, running backwards through time, until Glory in her red red dress held her by the throat. And this time she squeezed out every last drop of blood.   
  
Through her window, she could almost see the sun, edging up the horizon like a thief. Dawn. Her time of day, in more ways than one.   
  
She yawned, considered a moment. Today was... Tuesday, maybe. It didn't matter; there was no way she was going to school, still half-drugged and sporting her shiny new cast. Buffy would call her in sick -- she thought she'd maybe said that, but much of the previous night was a blur. Even if parts of it remained sharp enough to slice through her breath.   
  
Dawn pulled herself out of bed. She was stiff, and clothed in her jeans and sweater. Someone had removed her shoes -- they lay on her floor, toppled and unlaced -- but her socks still clung to her feet, undisturbed. One was inside out, baring a ridge of stitches.   
  
Her room was silent. The rest of the house seemed to be, too. There were no sounds of motion, no hurried feet, no rush between shower and bedroom, no faucets or groaning kitchen appliances. Buffy and Willow were still asleep, then. Good. She wasn't ready to deal yet -- not even halfway there.   
  
Yawning again, she headed to her door. Paused before the mirror, surveying the damage of her face. The blood had been cleaned off, skin wiped clean across splits and scabs. She looked pale. Tired. A little worn out, understandably. Dawn Summers staring back at her out of glass, a mosaic of light and shadow. With decidedly messy hair. At least the lump in her throat -- anxiety hard as pebble, or maybe a sigh half-swallowed -- wasn't visible.   
  
She combed fingers through her hair, then a brush -- adjusting slowly to a one-armed world.   
  
Dawn didn't want to be there.   
  
She stepped into the hallway. Buffy's door was closed; she didn't glance toward Willow's but began to tiptoe down the stairs -- then thought a moment and returned for her shoes. She briefly considered changing clothing, but the thought of wrestling with her cast or changing her jeans one-handed didn't appeal.   
  
Dawn didn't want to be there.   
  
She'd leave a note.   
  
-----   
  
The sun slanted down on her. Time was angular: the degrees at which light fell, the way her shadow slid across the grass equated mathematical midmorning. Earlier, even. She wondered if he was awake.   
  
"Hello? Spike?" she called, slipping inside the crypt. Cigarette smoke lingered, weightless -- not enough to give breathy substance, but there, mixed with other scents: that dusty taste of age that would never disappear, the slightest metallic tang of blood, the barest hints of burning candles. It was familiar, even if she hadn't been there lately, even if it wasn't precisely pleasant. "Are you here?"   
  
Her words disturbed the stillness, scattering pockets of air. Maybe that was movement in the thickness, near the blurred edge of candles. Awake, then.   
  
"Your sis know you're here?"   
  
She whirled. Awake, then, but not where she'd thought. He stood to one side, cupping his cigarette with one hand, one eyebrow arched at her. His expression was difficult to read. Concern limned his features -- she caught a slight frown as his eyes found her cast -- but something in his tone hinted at irritation. Candlelight flickered across his face but did not illuminate.   
  
Dawn shrugged to conceal her anxiety, ignoring the the pain her movement caused. "She was still asleep. So I ... left her a note. But -- but I don't think she'll mind this time."   
  
He made a noise suspiciously like a snort, took another long breath of his cigarette. Ash grew long, hiding its glow beneath gray. If he moved, even a little, it might loosen and spill -- but he held still, purposeful almost. He moved his eyes to hers, nodding slightly. "How's the arm?"   
  
"Okay. It's a little uncomfortable, but I think mostly I'm just sore. I'm okay if I don't move much." Dawn shrugged once more, then winced. Her shoulder had tensed, her muscles bunched. She was certain she must be all over purple. "...I think I'll maybe just stick to making faces." Pausing a moment, Dawn turned away, toward the entrance where the door stood unclosed. Pools of sunlight had gathered on the floor; she could trace their edges with her eyes like fingers on spilled honey. But if she blinked, they would blur. Daylight felt out of focus. "I just... didn't want to be at home. It feels like it'll be all twitchy, and twitching's sorta painful."   
  
Dawn took a seat on the edge of stone, settling in. Smiling brightly, she asked, "So .... Wanna tell me a story?"   
  
-----   
  
Buffy rode her emotion, all the way to the cemetary. Emotion could be like alcohol, like a drug -- concentrate on feeling, not thinking. Take anger and run with it. It was her first impulse upon reading Dawn's note, despite other convictions, and she let it carry her -- out the door, down the road. Until there she was, a step away from his the entrance and poised for discipline. So she wasn't certain why she hesitated. Or why it bothered her that their voices should carry this far.   
  
Her sister and Spike, far away voices still distinct if she strained.   
  
"Well, you did the right thing, niblet."   
  
"I guess... It's just -- like, he was the only one who -- he liked me. He really did. And I staked him."   
  
"I don't see you had much of a choice in the matter."   
  
"Didn't I? Maybe he -- "   
  
"Could have been kidnapped by a bunch of nasty little soldier boys and had a chip stuck in his noggin? Doesn't work that way."   
  
Buffy was putting an end to this.   
  
She found them seated across from each other, Dawn on a table of stone, Spike in a chair. Unconcerned, Dawn turned as she approached; a flicker in her eyes gave her away, a little uncertainty creeping in from beneath her eyelids. Spike remained motionless, but he sighed, fingers loosely grasping leather, the arm of the chair.   
  
"Dawn, you know better," she said rigidly, keeping her gaze fixed upon her sister. Arms folded across herself, she slid her eyes from Dawn's face to her sling: cloth and plaster holding together fragile bone, flesh. There was a trace of something different in her face, unreadable, a calm that belied the question in her eyes.   
  
"Don't freak out. I'm completely safe, I've been here the whole time. I just wanted to -- "   
  
"What? Put yourself in danger again? A broken arm isn't enough for you?" Something harsh had settled in her belly -- not quite anger, but a sort of desperation, maybe -- frustration and... her own anxiousness to leave. She was being hard on Dawn, but she couldn't seem to be gentle. It came out all wrong. It felt hopeless.   
  
"Come on now, love, you really think she's at risk here?" He was rolling his eyes. She could hear it in his tone.   
  
She didn't look at him. "We're going."   
  
-----   
  
Spike remained in the darkness, sitting, half a sigh formed and held in his throat. He was tired, but the movement between chair and bed seemed wasteful. He was comfortable enough. It mattered little.   
  
She was beginning to frustrate him.   
  
The whole routine. Bend a little and return to the former position. It had to be driving her a little mad, too. It couldn't last much longer; there had to come a point when indecision either disappeared or became tangible -- and either would be easier to handle than this weightless drifting.   
  
Still, he had it. Validation, if short-lived, was his. A smile touched his features, soft but lingering in the cool light. He slipped between consciousness and the drift of memories: the sound of her voice when she was trying to lie. The way she would tilt her head. How his skin had warmed beneath her touch.   
  
He was still there when night came.   
  
-----   
  
When night came, the girl took the step between translucence and corporeal form, but was noticed only by the light and no passersby. She would have looked out of place, even to the casual eye -- maybe stolen from another universe, or a Victorian painting, or a costume shop.   
  
They'd arrived in town the night before. Him, her, another. The other still waited beyond the bends of time, clay unmolded by a whimsical hand -- him, a sort of merry Dickens with a different story to tell. After all, if the past were revealed, maybe future events could be altered. Maybe wasted time and tears could be saved, better spent at other pains.   
  
That's what he was here for.   
  
Someone up there liked them.   
  
-------------------------------------------------   
  
Notes:  
This _is_ going somewhere, I promise. And hopefully it won't take forever for me to get it there. And hopefully I'll learn to be a bit more in character as this goes along -- I'm just beginning here, so ... well, it's a lame excuse, but an excuse it is. And don't worry; that last section is supposed to be confusing. For fun.   



End file.
